


Moriarty and Moran - Protectors of Pigeons

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Birds, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, M/M, Pigeons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: Moriarty tending to an injured pigeon/dove, ending in Moriarty/Moran fluff</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moriarty and Moran - Protectors of Pigeons

   It happens just as they are returning home, so fast it’s all rather a blur even to Moran who is usually so alert for dangers to himself and his professor. The butcher’s cart careers past at astonishing speed, its driver whipping up his horse, the speeding vehicle striking a blow to its hapless victim and leaving them to lie dazed in the road as it goes merrily on its way. The driver doesn’t even look back.

    “Bloody mad bastard!” Moran spits after him, turning to look for Moriarty, and his heart nearly skips a beat when he finds the place beside him where Moriarty had just been standing seconds before empty. “Professor?” But there he is, crouching in the road, surely unhurt, yet to judge by the expression on his face clearly there is something wrong. “Professor? What’s happened?”

    “ _This_.” He stands now and Moran realises what he is holding: a pigeon, mottled white and grey in colour, cradled tenderly in his gloved hands. “He was struck by the cart as he came in to land, poor pigeon.”

    “I, er…” Moran wonders what he’s expected to do with the bird. He has a very limited experience of dealing with wounded animals and the majority of those experiences ended with him putting a bullet through them. “Well, erm…” He scratches at his beard as he ponders this predicament. “What d’you want me to do, sir, snap its neck?”

    Moriarty gives him a horrified look rather as if Moran’s just whipped his tadger out and has started waving it about in public rather than suggesting putting an injured bird out of its misery. “ _No!_ ” he says firmly. “Not unless absolutely necessary. We must get him inside and keep him warm and safe from the neighbourhood cats.”

    “Right sir.” Moran knows better than to protest at this, even though he is no great lover of pigeons (It’s the eyes! Those beady little eyes!). Dutifully he follows Moriarty and opens the front door for him, allowing the professor to very carefully carry the bird into their house.

    “Sebastian, perhaps if you fetched the wastepaper basket from my study, we might put him in that for a time to see if he recovers,” Moriarty suggests.

    “Right sir.”

    “And fetch a couple of towels!” Moriarty adds when Moran is out in the hall

    “Yes sir.”

    Because it’s Moriarty asking (or ordering) and perhaps also because Moran would quite like to get laid sometime this week and he knows the professor will shun him for days if he doesn’t at least make an effort to help his pigeon, Moran goes to retrieve the wastebasket and a couple of old towels and brings these back to the sitting room. Here he finds Moriarty has now seated himself on the sofa before the fire whilst still holding the bird. He seems to be making quiet cooing noises at it, not stopping even when Moran re-enters.

    Moran clears his throat.  “Erm… Professor? Now what?”

    Moriarty looks up slowly, as if finally noticing Moran has returned. “Line the basket with one of the towels so it’s nice and comfortable for him.”

    “It’s a pigeon, sir. It’s also a _stunned_ pigeon. Does it really care?”

    “I think _you_ would care for a little comfort had you just been struck by a speeding cart.” Moriarty continues to cradle the pigeon while Moran does as he’s told and puts one of the towels inside the basket. “Put it a little closer to the fire, to keep him cosy.” He decides to let Moran’s little eye-roll pass without comment and he stands up and very gently places the pigeon into the basket. “There now, my pretty little pigeon, let’s get you nice and warm.”

    “Is it even alive?” Moran asks, peering over the professor’s shoulder. The pigeon doesn’t seem to be moving, although he can most certainly resist the temptation to poke it to make sure. He can’t bear the thought of the thing fluttering up in his face if it’s not already snuffed it.

    “The poor creature may be concussed. He needs warmth and darkness and quiet if he is to stand any chance of recovery.” Moriarty straightens up and takes the second towel from Moran, which he now drapes over the basket, so it covers the top and most of the sides, putting the bird into near-darkness. “Now I think perhaps… If you could pass me that book, please.” Moran dutifully hands over the book on the side table, which Moriarty places atop the towel-covered basket to keep the pigeon from trying to fly out should the urge strike him. “There, that should keep him safe.”

    Moran stands beside him for a moment, staring down at the basket.  “Should we, erm, should we get it some water or something?” he asks, and then wonders why he even cares. It’s only a pigeon; it’s not even a mammal.

    “No, it is best if we leave him completely alone.” Moriarty still seems though not to want to move away from the covered basket.

    “Well, er, maybe we _should_ leave it alone for a bit then, to recover.” Moran shifts his hand slightly, as if to touch Moriarty’s hand, then thinks better of it. “Professor?”

    “Hmm? Oh, yes, of course. We shall leave him in peace for an hour or two.” Still he sounds uncertain though, so Moran pointedly clears his throat and makes an ‘after you’ gesture, which at last seems to persuade Moriarty to leave the room.

   “I’m sure it’ll be all right, sir,” he says once they’re out in the hall.

    “Well, he will either pull through or he won’t; such is the nature of things.” Moriarty is being practical but he sighs somewhat sadly. “Sebastian, should he deteriorate, you will… take care of matters, won’t you? I am not squeamish about these things but in this instance I would prefer not to do it myself.”

    “Of course, Professor.” Killing people, killing pigeons, it’s all the same to Moran really, whatever keeps Moriarty happy (or, well, no, in this case that wouldn’t make him happy, Moran realises).

    “Thank you, Moran.” Moriarty puts his hand on Moran’s arm briefly before turning away, towards his study. “If you wouldn’t mind I would like to be alone for a couple of hours now.”

    “Right then.” Moran stands there for a minute, wondering what he’s meant to do now when Moriarty has retreated to his study without leaving Moran any further orders and the sitting room is seemingly out of bounds. Ordinarily he’d probably go out and get tipsy or go to one of his clubs and see who he can cheat out of a few quid over a card game but that would mean leaving the house, and that seems like a bad idea at present. He may be needed to wring that bloody bird’s neck and to soothe the professor’s distress if the pigeon does shuffle off the mortal coil today. Well then, he decides, time to go and clean all of his and the professor’s boots then.

    Moriarty finds Moran out in the yard a little under two hours later, one of the professor’s boots jammed on his left hand, a shoe-brush gripped in his right, with smudges of black boot polish on his fingers. He raises his eyebrows at the colonel doing such menial work but declines to comment on it. It is not the first time and at least it keeps him from getting drunk.

    “Moran, if you wouldn’t mind putting that down for a while,” he says, “I think it is time we checked on our patient.”

     “Right sir.” Moran carries the now gleaming pair of boots and the brush and polish inside and goes to wash the smudges from his hands, before he joins Moriarty in the sitting room. There he finds the professor is simply staring at the still-covered wastepaper basket. “Do you, erm, want me to look?” Moran asks, fervently hoping that Moriarty says no. If the thing is dead, fair enough, he’ll only have the professor’s mood to worry about, but what if it’s alive and tries to fly at him?

    “No, no.” Moriarty takes a deep breath and then removes the book, before very gently lifting the side of the towel to peek into the basket.

    At once Moran hears fluttering from within and he promptly steps backwards. “It’s alive then,” he says, still not wanting to get any closer to the pigeon.

    “Yes.” Moriarty crouches down and peers into the basket. “And he is rather more animated than earlier, aren’t you my pretty? Yes you are.”

    “Well, is it all right?”

    “It would seem so.” Moriarty beams up at Moran, who smiles back at him.

    “I’m glad, Professor.” Although he’s even more glad that Moriarty places the towel back over the top of the basket, dulling the pigeon’s flapping about. “Now what do we do with it?”

    “I think he has recovered enough for us to take him outside.” The professor stands, clasping the covered basket to his chest. “If you could lead the way out the back please.”

    Moran does, relieved he’s apparently not expected to have to touch the bird, and opens the door out into the yard again, holding it for Moriarty, who walks slowly down to the end of the yard and sets the basket down on the ground. Apparently Moran isn’t going to get out of seeing the pigeon off properly though, much to his chagrin.

    “Come here, Sebastian,” Moriarty calls. “When I lift the basket up, will you gently remove the towel please?”

    Moran stops leaning against the wall and with a small yet resigned sigh strolls over to the professor.

   “Ready?” Moriarty asks.

    “It’s not gonna fly at me, right?” Moran wants to be clear about this before he unleashes the bird.

    “I doubt it very much. If he is able to fly again then he should head skywards.”

    “Right.” Moran looks somewhat vexed about this lack of certainty as to where the pigeon may fly as he gingerly grips the edge of the towel. “Ready, Professor.”

    “On the count of three then, _gently_ lift the towel off. One, two, three.”

    Moran draws the towel aside and at once there is an alarming snap of wings that causes the colonel (retired soldier, former big game hunter, right hand and closest companion of the most dangerous man in London and generally just a ruthless murderous bastard) to emit a slightly childish shriek and duck for cover behind the professor. The pigeon though, unconcerned by this behaviour, bursts out and does indeed head towards the skies, confidently beating its wings and showing no indication of any impairment.

    Moran realises that he may well have just somewhat needlessly overreacted and stands up straight again, hoping Moriarty was too engrossed in the pigeon to notice his behaviour.

    “Ah, Colonel,” Moriarty says. “Look at him fly.”

    Moran follows the direction of the professor’s gaze and picks out the pigeon against the grey skies, soaring higher and higher before it swoops away out of sight over the rooftops.

    Moriarty watches the skies even after the bird has vanished from sight, a delighted smile upon his face, although Moran finds himself watching the professor now rather than the sky. Moriarty is really so much more interesting than any bird, and when he looks happy like this…

    Moran drops his hand, his knuckles brushing the back of the professor’s hand and then sliding his hand around to link his fingers through Moriarty's and squeeze gently. An impulsive move, a reckless one even, and it cannot bode well that Moriarty has made no response – Moriarty is often at his most dangerous when he goes quiet and still. Surely this means then he is about to chastise Moran severely for behaving so outdoors and Moran’s protests that he was simply pleased that the pigeon was all right and acted impulsively as a result will count for nothing. Besides, he wonders, when the hell did he start feeling a need to hold hands with the professor like some bloody maiden with her sweetheart?

    He is about to shamefacedly pull his hand away when he is astonished to feel Moriarty squeeze back.

    “Sebastian, my own dear pigeon.” Moriarty looks at him at last and Moran sees no anger, no contempt there, just faint amusement. “Perhaps we might return indoors before we indulge in any further displays of affection, hmm?”

    “Of course sir.” Moran drops his gaze and blushes deeply as he relinquishes the professor’s hand.

    “Come on then, my boy.” Carrying the basket, Moriarty heads back towards the door.

    Moran dutifully follows him, bringing the towel.

 -

    “Thank you,” Moriarty says once they’re back in the sitting room, now seated together upon the sofa before the fire. It’s peaceful in here, with the crackling flames and the soft ticking of the mantel clock (and perhaps most importantly, Moran thinks, no pigeons).

    Moran, leaning against Moriarty with his head upon the professor’s shoulder, looks up from staring into the hearth. “For what?”

    “I am aware that you are no great admirer of pigeons; in fact that you are…” Moriarty declines, in the interests of preserving both the peace and Moran’s dignity, to say _actually bloody terrified of them_. “…somewhat averse to them. So your assistance was even more appreciated.”

    Moran isn’t quite sure how to respond to this, feeling as he does that he didn’t really do anything much, although the pigeon has gone safely back to wherever pigeons go and therefore the professor is pleased so he supposes that’s all that matters. “I’m glad it was all right,” he says.

    “So am I, pet.” Moriarty slides his arm a little further around Moran, drawing him closer until Moran is curled snugly against the professor’s side. “That dratted butcher’s boy is a menace.”

   “I’ll see to him, Professor,” Moran promises, which is good enough to guarantee that the driver in question will never again come racing down their street - Colonel Moran can be _very_ persuasive.

    “Thank you, Sebastian.” Moriarty dips his head and kisses Moran lightly on the forehead. “My sweet Sebastian, brave protector of pigeons.”

    Moran pulls a wry face. “ _Sir_.”

    “Yes?” Moriarty says with perfect innocence.

    “Just…” Moran laughs. “Don’t let that get out, that I look after bleedin’ pigeons. I have a reputation to uphold.”

     Moriarty casts a fond look down at his right hand man/top assassin/lover nestled as close to him now as it is possible to get and looking happy as a cat in a sunbeam, and he reflects that this then is just one of many things it would never do to allow to become public knowledge. “Of course not,” he says, and smiles. “It shall be our little secret.”


End file.
